


My Lord, my life

by WeAllFlyHigh



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Historical Hetalia, Regicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:28:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22934077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeAllFlyHigh/pseuds/WeAllFlyHigh
Summary: There where my fortune lives, there my life dies. -King John, ShakespeareThe Crown Jewels of England have been lost to human hands, the King lies ill in Newark Castle, and England mourns for all he has lost and for all he has done.
Kudos: 11





	My Lord, my life

“This England never did nor never shall, Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror.” King John, Act 5 Scene 7

The wind whistled between stone cracks in the monastery.

England’s eyes followed him as the monk moved from one side of his King’s bed to the other. The monk murmured prayers as he went. He reached out ever so slightly squeezed a leech, measured its weight, and chose to either to leave it or pluck it up into the tin cradled in his hands. 

King John moaned the whole while. His skin’s pallor only grew worse as the night stretched on. What began as a tightness to his lips had become a waxiness that lay over the whole of his face. His soft curls lay limp and tangled about his head. To say his King was thrashing in his bed would have been an exaggeration. Instead the king shifted slightly, seeking out fleeting comfort. 

The King did not look at England. It had been many days since he had so much as spoken to England. The King’s worries had consumed him and he had lashed out. Their last words to each other had not been kind. The King had been reluctant to say it, but he laid the blame for it all on the nation. He did not quell the rebellious barons. He should have foreseen France’s moves. He should have sensed the traitors in their midst. The King would not admit his role in any of it.

England’s eyes drifted to the bowl laying by the King’s bedside. He watched the candle’s light gleam on the water’s surface. Neither the King nor the monk paid it any mind. Had they noticed, they would not have had any idea what to make of the few torn leaves and ground sediments lingering at the bottom. Even if they had any knowledge of the art that had crafted the potion, they would have had no way to draw out the blood that had been mixed in days ago. 

England sighed deeply remembering the taste of muddy water and prickling pain that still lingered in his fingers. It was such a small price to pay for such sorcery.

The monk bowed his head, first to the King as he moved away. He lingered in the doorway as he titled his head to England. He looked pained. It was as if he genuinely grieved for the King that had done so much to harm to his kind. Perhaps all really had been forgiven. How Christ like. The nation sighed. His King was dying. After he monk departed the room was quiet one more. King Joh drifted in and out of consciousness. 

“My crown…” The king moaned. England sighed as he began to stir once more.

England’s fingers traced ancient patterns on the stones behind him. There was no magic in the gestures, merely comfort in the familiarity of things done for so long and so long ago abandoned. He tapped the stone sharply and pushed himself away. He was a nation. He thought first and always about his people. They were his very essence and, in that way,, he was a very selfish being. All he had done, the best and the worst of it, was for his people. He did no regret doing it for them, but he took no pleasure in the deeds. This may be the worst of it. 

He had trailed after Boudica’s troupes, taken countless French arrows, all for his Kings-present and Kings-to-be. He would do it again and he would do far more in the future. It was why he, even having done the deed, he could not take satisfaction in it. He could not even forgive himself for the men swept away in the marshes, as necessary as it was.

He approached his monarch. The King paid him no mind. He rested his hands on the end of the bed. The pressure shifted the blankets. This drew the Kings attention. England caught his king’s unsteady gaze. “Yes, England’s crown jewels are gone.” His words were little more than a whisper but said firmly. There was no use in denying it or fretting over softening the blow. It was a fact.

The King almost sobbed in his despair. England wished he could believe that it was despair for his nation, his people. The civil war, the lost of Normandy. the utter embarrassment of losing the jewels; there were many reasons to despair. Still it was far more likely that it was his stomach pains that grieved the King. 

England sat upon the bed smoothing the wrinkles left in his wake. His jaw clenched as he fought to keep the anger out of his voice. The time for helplessness was over. 

This man, his King, was one of his own. He had heard the bells cry out when he had been born, he had been the one to teach the boy to string a bow, and he had seen him crowned. England had never been one to coddle his monarchy, but at this moment he tried for something sweet plucked from childhood memories. It was the only comfort he could offer him.

England smiled down at his King. “You shouldn’t have eaten those pears. Really what were you thinking, your mother would have scolded you for so much as looking at them.”

“Shut up,” the King hissed between gritted teeth. Thin spittle spilled over his chin. England flinched. Well that was the end of that. England felt his heart shutter in his chest then harden. King or no there was only so much England could tolerate. 

The nation leaned back, supporting his weight on one hand. His eyes drifted over the stone walls once more. He glanced at John from the corner of his eye. To think, the King of England was to die in such a small room. It was beneath the crown. Of course, few men died the way they would have wished to. The songs even made death on the battlefield a glorious thing rather than the gory mess it was. But few wanted to recount their heroes lying in the mud, crying out for their mothers. He chanced another glance at the King. “France is going to be insufferable.” 

“I know.”

England rolled his shoulders. “You really don’t. I have lost Normandy and he’ll be crowing about it, long after I get it back.” If I get it back, England thought bitterly. 

“I am your King. I know how France pains you.” The Kings breath was heavier. Perhaps his lungs were trying to give up the battler first. The King’s whole body was wasting away.

“And my people,” England said firmly. “They pain me. Or rather their pain, pains me.” England waited until the King’s eyes fluttered closed, then he moved higher up the bed. The King’s eyes opened again and then closed. England moved closer still. Each time the King opened his eyes England was nearer than he had been. There was no reason for his secrecy. It merely felt like the thing to do, to keep certain truths from his King. 

“My crown jewels...”

“My crown jewels,” England repeated. He let the words hang in the air. He let the silence grow. He now sat level with the Kings shoulder. The nation leaned over so that he hovered above his head. He brought one hand up the King’s brow, pushing back strands of sweaty hair. “They are England’s crown jewels.” England’s heart throbbed. His king was dying. “Do you really think it matters to me if they sit in my throne room or in my fields? So long as it is clear they are mine.”

The King mouths twisted into a scowl. England leaned away. He reached out to the bowl bringing it to his face. He inhaled its sharp scent. 

“They are my right as King, divine-” The King let out a noise more bellow than moan. “Heaven help me,” he gasped. 

England lifted his head. “You’re dying.”

“Not yet. I am not first the man to take ill.” 

England nodded. John was no doubt thinking of the monk that would soon be back to tend to him. Of his few loyal barons ready to defend him. His honor had never depended on riches and the loss of the crown jewels would mean little to him at this time. And soon it would all mean nothing. 

England set down the bowl. The King’s breathing slowed relaxing, for just a moment between the pain.

England gently smoothed stray hair back into place. His fingers trailed over his King’s checks to his chin. With great care he tilted John’s chin, bringing the Kings tired eyes to meet his own. Soon the King would be gone, but he would sleep for now. England’s lips parted slowly. There was no way to make his impending blow less painful. Still he said it softly. “You’ll be dead by the marrow. You deserve to know that it will not be of any Earthly means or by anyone else’s hand but mine. I have poisoned you. Perhaps your successor will serve me better.”

The King moaned. His eyes swelled with questions that he no longer had the strength to say. 

England stood. Even if it brought no comfort to John, it would be the right thing to do. He had to stay and watch he end result of his actions. He had done many cruel things for his people and this would be but one more. England closed the door as silently as possible. He walked down the stone halls. There was so much he still had to do. 

England’s tongue ran over his lower lip. “To none will we sell, to none deny or delay, right to justice,” he whispered to the stones.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure I got the tone right on this one. Feel free to comment, kudo, curse me to the high heavens, ext... 
> 
> Notes:  
> The last line there is from the Magna Carta Clause 40, which is the document King John signed limiting the rights of kings.  
> I have never read or seen Shakespeare's King John but there are several references in there.   
> King John may not have been as bad as king as Robin Hood portrays him but history is written by the victors and it makes a good story.  
> There were several rumored culprits for King John's murder. Truthfully, he was sick before he arrived at Newark Castle. Dysentery killed a bunch of people in history.


End file.
